


Crickets

by junebugrebellion



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Asshole Dad, Child Abuse, Choking, Clint Barton's backstory is one for the ages, Clint goes to Iowa, Clint has PTSD and everyone is sad, Clint has a pickup truck, Death, F/M, Hawkeye - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Knives, Nightmares, One Shot, PTSD, Road Trip, Steve just wants to help, The Battle of New York, clint has a farm, implied Clintasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junebugrebellion/pseuds/junebugrebellion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of New York takes its toll on everyone, but Clint’s never allowed himself to cry before. Hell, he doesn't deserve it.<br/>[alternately titled "clinthateshimself.dox" or "stevetriessohard.dox" or "natashadoesn'tknowhowtofeel.dox" or "clint+iowa=verybadtime.dox"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crickets

**May 12.**

Exhaustion plagues Clint's shoulders. The first week has been interrogations and intense medical exams. Being surrounded by one-way mirrors and cold faces and hidden handguns sure doesn't feel like sick bay. He hasn't been permitted to leave SHIELD headquarters for eight days post-battle, eight days post-Loki.

Just to make sure he's alright.

Just to make sure he isn't a monster, more like it.

Then, they release him, telling him he isn't at fault, giving him a pat on the back.

"They're pretending I'm innocent," he says that night, whispering into the beer Natasha had offered. "They treated me like a terrorist, and now they're telling me I'm innocent."

He takes a swig, and it burns his throat, but he swallows everything. "I think they're wrong."

Concern doesn't even begin to describe the emotion in her eyes.

**May 14.**

_Romanoff, it's Rogers. Steve Rogers. Barton was at the clean-up today, but I couldn't get to talking to him. How's he doing? Is he having nightmares? I don't have his number, otherwise I'd call him. Yours was programmed into my telephone. Tell him... Tell him that I'm here if he ever needs it, from one soldier to another. I might understand what he's going through._

**May 15.**

"Natasha told me you called."

Clint watches as Steve looks up from the rubble, his impossible strength moving a steel beam that must weigh at least two hundred pounds. "Barton," he says, shielding his eyes from the sun. "I'm glad to see you here."

_Glad to see me cleaning up my mess._ "I'm glad you know how to use a cell phone."

"It's not that hard, but it's a bit mind-boggling."

"You get used to that."

There's a moment of pause, and Clint has to force himself to look at Steve's face, not at the dust and rubble and bodies beyond.

The casualty count keeps climbing, civilians and agents alike.

"You kill anyone, in the war?" asks Clint, shifting his weight to his left leg. He's giving Steve what he wants, to help the golden boy remember that he's still golden.

"Yes."

"You ever see their faces?"

"Some of them, yes."

"What about the numbers?" he asks, watching someone pull away a lump of cement to find someone's face, gray and deformed and gone. He adds another to his mental tally. "You ever figure how many?"

"I tried," Steve says, finally getting up. "I used to do the math with notebook paper, and then I'd multiply by four, for families."

It's subtle, but Clint's teeth sink into his lip.

"It never did anything but to make it worse. After a while, I just had to try and accept that it was war. It's not easy, Clint. But, those men knew what they were getting into, fighting a war." His voice is beyond gentle, and it sounds as if he's been thinking about how to say this, how to deliver it sweetly.

Behind Steve, someone gasps, and Clint sees it, not hears. A few more people come over to uncover what must be a body. Someone brings a stretcher.

"Just know that agents and soldiers prepare themselves for death."

Two men gingerly remove the body, and the air leaves Clint's lungs.

It's a child, no more than ten. The ribcage is horrifically crushed, and blackened blood has soaked the shirt. Dark, curly hair, cut close to the head has been turned ashen by dust. The kid's eyes are still open, still open, and they somehow find Clint across the width of the street.

_You did this. Fix it._

"I'm trying to," he whispers. "I just don't think I can."

"It'll work itself out," says Steve, and Clint suddenly remembers that he's standing in front of Captain America.

Steve doesn't understand, can't understand. He's a hero. He's a symbol. There's a clip of a woman that's been spread over every possible news station. "Captain America saved my life," she says with reverence.

There are no thank-yous for Hawkeye.

**May 18.**

"And now, we move on to the new information about the Battle of New York, as most have dubbed it. The Avengers, made up of-"

Natasha turns off the television with a groan. She's been busy with trying to manipulate information to paint the picture SHIELD wants. "I wish they'd stop repeating the same shit."

"Tell me about it," says Clint around a bowl of Lucky Charms.

**May 29.**

_It's the middle of the night when Clint wakes, Natasha sleeping next to him as she's taken to doing in the past month. She trusts him. Good. Perfect._

_He reaches over to his nightstand and finds the knob of its drawer in the blackness._

_"Clint," murmurs Natasha, grabbing at the back of his shirt. The sleepiness in her voice is almost vulnerable. "Don't go."_

_The drawer is pulled open as his eyes adjust to the blackness. He finds a handle, and his well-trained fingers wrap around it. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart," he whispers._

_That's when he flips over, straddling her waist, pinning her with his hips._

_Her eyes aren't even open. "No, no, not now, baby. It's too late." A yawn escapes her lips, and it makes Clint reconsider._

_So, he glances at the knife and tosses it to the floor before wrapping his hands around her neck, squeezing. Her eyes shoot open, and she starts thrashing against the sheets, but he only pushes his thumbs deeper into her throat._

_She keeps mouthing his name. Her fingers claw at his hands._

_He is relentless. He's grinning._

_Her struggles get less and less forceful as the oxygen in her blood fades. This is the way it's always meant to be: him, finishing the job. Slowly, intimately, in all the ways he knows she fears._

_Their eyes meet, and he can see the terror in her gaze. But, she isn't angry. Just scared. She almost looks worried as the life fades from her._

Clint sits bolt upright in bed, sweat soaking him and the sheets. His eyes dart around the room; it's empty. No one is here except for him. Natasha is safe in her own apartment.

He grabs the bottle of water on his nightstand and drinks all of it, hardly breathing between gulps. He can't breathe, doesn't deserve to breathe.

_You okay, Natasha?_ he texts.

_Yeah, I'm fine. Did something happen?_

_Just a nightmare. I'm fine. Goodnight._

Clint doesn't allow himself to cry.

**June 4.**

"So, it's been a month," says Natasha over a carton of terrible French fries at McDonald's.

Clint nods and pops a disgusting chicken nugget in his mouth.

"Maybe we should take some time off."

"We haven't had an assignment since May."

"Well, I'm getting tired of looking at the same skyline."

He grabs his Coke and leans back, sipping half-heartedly. "Where the hell would we go? Everywhere in the world is obsessed with this godforsaken city."

"Someplace out of the loop?"

"There's no way I'm getting on a plane."

"California, then."

"I want to stay as far away from Stark as possible."

She slams her hands on the table, and he flinches just the slightest bit. " _Stop it._ "

"I don't want to-"

"What, have fun? Get better? Jesus, Clint, it's been a _month_ , and you haven't even _smiled._ "

"I'm sorry for being _affected,_ " he responds with heavy sarcasm, putting his drink down.

"Like I _wasn't?_ " She crosses her arms over her chest, giving him the glare she's patented for when he's being a dumbass. "But I'm not sitting at home in sweatpants and drinking a pot of coffee every day."

"Three pots."

" _Clint!_ "

He sighs, the air suddenly heavy and suffocating. There are too many people around for him to allow himself to slip into a panic attack. A long moment of silence passes as he tries to swallow the terror that pools in his chest. The way she looks at him kills.

"How about a road trip?" he attempts quietly.

She raises her eyebrows with heavy skepticism. "A road trip," she repeats.

"Yeah. In my truck, maybe."

"I'm never going to understand why you think having a pickup truck in New York City is a good idea."

"I've got an image to uphold."

"Where does this road trip end?"

"I dunno, Nat. Maybe the Grand Canyon?"

She chews her lip in consideration before nodding a bit. "Alright. How long do you want to be gone for?"

He shrugs, but the death in his eyes is slowly fading. "Maybe a month? Two?"

She smiles a bit, and it's only slightly forced. "How about we leave in a week?"

"Sure," he says, nodding. "We can stop by laundromats to wash our shit."

With a nod, she steals one of his chicken nuggets.

**June 12.**

"Mind if I take a little detour?" asks Clint, late-afternoon sun making the blond of his hair look gold.

She looks up from her book- the drive has been corn for hours, now, so why watch the scenery- and nods a bit. "Go ahead. Where to?"

His lips quirk into something that's almost a smile. "There's this diner my brother used to take me to on Saturdays."

Her expression turns to one of shock, but she says nothing.

"We'll get there tomorrow afternoon, probably."

"Sounds good to me. Sleep under the stars? In the truck bed?"

He pauses before looking at her. There are no weapons in the back of the truck. "Absolutely."

**June 13.**

**12:30 PM.**

Natasha watches Clint pace outside as she sips at her chocolate shake. The diner likely hasn't had a paint job since its opening in the fifties, but the shakes are great, the burgers better. The vintage memorabilia is all faked, save for the records. When they pulled up outside, though, Clint's eyes sparkled.

He keeps moving back and forth, his phone pressed to his ear. His hands make wide gestures, and she swears she catches him chuckling.

After a while, he comes back through the door, his phone in his pocket. He takes a sip from his shake, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "God, I've missed these. We used to come here every Saturday, ride our bikes. Barney- my brother- he'd pay. He got strawberry, I got chocolate."

"That sounds lovely," she says, putting her chin in her hands.

He's grinning.

**1:12 PM.**

Barney Barton checks his voicemail, and his brows furrow when he sees the most recent message.

_Hey, Barney. It's me, it's Clint. I'm... I'm back in Iowa, back home. Do you remember the Starlight Diner? I'm there with my... Well, I don't know what she is, really. But her name's Natasha, and she's here with me. The milkshakes, they're still the best. I'll order a strawberry for you, yeah? I... I hope you're doing alright, Barn. I'm trying to be alright, and I'm getting there. I... I don't know if I'll have cell service, but if you call, I'll try and pick up. No pressure, though. No pressure._

**1:46 PM.**

Clint parks the truck outside of the cemetery, a bouquet of miscellaneous flowers from Walmart in the back seat. He hops out of the driver's side and takes the flowers before motioning for Natasha to follow.

She can feel the difference in him as he walks, see the weight in his steps. Nothing is said, but she still watches him closely.

He stops in front of a rather plain headstone, only names and dates. She only reads the names before looking to him, swallowing.

**HAROLD AND EDITH BARTON**

"Clint?"

"My mom and dad." He says the words without malice, just exhaustion.

Her eyes never leave him. "You were a child, right?"

"Yeah. Eight. It was a... A car accident."

She takes his hand, her thumb running over his knuckles.

"My dad was a drunk."

Her hand squeezes around his.

"That's why they wrecked. Dad was drunk. Used to hit me and Barney. His hand and his belt. Mom didn't care. Sometimes, he'd slam us into the wall and just... just scream.

She pulls at his hand, making him look at her. "Why don't we go, Clint? Let's head out." His eyes are getting red, and she isn't sure she can take him crying.

"Hold on," he says, taking his hand from hers. "Just stay here for a minute."

She watches as he rummages through the truck before grabbing something and returning to her side. He carries an empty beer can and the flowers, slightly damaged by Clint's bending.

He sets the can down and stomps before kicking it toward the headstone half-heartedly. It clatters against the stone before falling to the overgrown grass.

"Here," he says, handing Natasha the flowers. He just sounds... tired.

Her brows furrow.

"Because you're here. With me. That's why. Now, come on. We've got one more stop."

**2:03 PM.**

"You never told me it was a farm," says Natasha, leaning against the pickup and surveying the farmhouse. The yellow paint is peeling from the exterior, the shutters are rotting, and there's a dead tree lying in pieces on the right side.

"It's a farm," he replies, his voice far away.

"Do you... want to go inside?"

"Nah."

He breathes deeply as he looks, his hands on the cab of the truck. She knows the look in his eyes: bitter memory and sorrow. It tastes like copper.

"Which one was your room?"

He points to the second floor, the right corner window. "You see that tree?" he asks, referring to the broken limbs on the ground.

She nods once, following his gestures.

"It used to be so tall, it'd reach my window on that side. Must've fallen down since I left."

His teeth sink into his lip as he considers going further.

"I used to climb into it, at night, when my parents were fighting. I'd get so far out, I couldn't hear 'em. I nearly froze in my pajama shorts, but I just looked at the stars, and I'd listen to the crickets-"

And, suddenly, tears well. His speech shudders to a halt, and his chest begins to quiver.

It's much too early for cricket song.

His eyes look skyward in an attempt to keep tears from falling, but it's of little use. Saltwater makes a streamlined path, and when he sees Natasha's open mouth as she gapes at him, he collapses.

He has enough sense to hunch into the cab of the truck as he begins to sob.

Her hand finds his back, and he can tell that she's not quite sure how to comfort someone who's nearly destroyed the world.

Every single face from New York flies through his head, and he hasn't even put a face to every number. It hurts, it aches, it kills him to imagine how many families he's destroyed. Over a month has passed, and this is the first time he cries. The sobs send his body buckling underneath their weight.

He's crying like a child, and a fucking tree set it off. Not the people he killed, not the loss of himself, but the destruction of the last place in the world that might have been safe.

"I'm sorry," he whispers under his gasping for air. "I'm so sorry."

Natasha's hand on his back stills, but his sobs do anything but. "It'll be okay, Clint. It'll be okay." 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! as always, kudos and comments are very appreciated!


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